


Various Storms and Saints

by JCF



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, Established Johnlock, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/M, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, This is what happens when life imitates art
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-02-27 05:49:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18732859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JCF/pseuds/JCF
Summary: A relative of Jim Moriarty, known to have ties to Jim's original organisation, has left England, so Mycroft asks Sherlock and John to be ready to leave on a moment's notice. However, things get complicated when Sherlock goes missing before the search can begin. They get even more complicated when Mycroft learns that Eurus has gotten out of Sherrinford. Again. When the only direct connection between Moriarty's relative and Eurus (and possibly Sherlock) is a reservations agent in Toronto, Mycroft is left with little choice but to team up with the one type of person he finds most annoying: A civilian.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of a series of coincidental phone calls at work. Yes, I know; the universe is rarely so lazy.
> 
> Special thanks to:  
> Sara (standbygo) for beta'ing and Kate Holloway for Brit-picking.  
> The I Am JohnLocked Facebook group for indulging the craziness of those few days back in February 2019.  
> To @DeducingSHolmes and @DrWatsonJohnH on Twitter for the RP storyline that inspired the plot.
> 
> With that, I bring you:  
> Various Storms and Saints  
>  
> 
> And the air was full  
> Of various storms and saints

Mycroft’s trousers pocket pinged.

He pulled his phone out and manoeuvred it so he could see it beneath the arm of his dentist.

**_Anthea_** **_now  
_**_How much longer are you going to be?_

Mycroft sighed. That woman had impeccable timing. He tapped the message and responded.

_I don’t know. I’m still in the dentist’s chair. What is it?_

_PING!_

**_Anthea_** **_now  
_**_You need to get back to the office asap._

Mycroft rolled his eyes. Well, that certainly answered the question. He thumbed at the screen.

_What is it?_

  ** _Anthea_** **_now  
_**_Paige Moriarty._

Mycroft frowned – or would have were the dentist not filling the cavity in his back molar. 

**_Anthea_** **_now  
_**_Call me when you’re done and I’ll explain._

A pit formed in Mycroft’s stomach. Anthea rarely spoke over the phone. She was like Sherlock in that regard; she much preferred to communicate via text or email. Only when the situation was dire did she actively invite a phone conversation. What could be so important and complicated, that she couldn’t explain it via text?

_Call me when you’re done and I’ll explain_.

Mycroft took a breath and slipped his phone back into his pocket. He never minded the dentist, but now, he couldn’t wait for his appointment to end. When it did, a quick nod was the only thanks he gave his dentist. As he passed the front desk, a curt nod  was the only instruction the receptionist needed to charge the account on file. Then he retrieved his coat, put it on, and left.

He was dialing Anthea’s number in seconds.

“Mycroft.” Anthea answered on the first ring.

“Whatshgoingon?” Mycroft cursed silently. Only half of his face was moving. And was his chin wet? He took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face; the handkerchief was wet when he looked at it.

He heard Anthea snicker quietly and he frowned. He cleared his throat.

“What is going on?” he repeated, carefully forming his words this time. “And what’s this about Paige Moriarty?”

“Paige Moriarty has left England,” Anthea said.

Mycroft paused. In the years since Sherlock had dismantled Jim Moriarty’s network, a branch they had overlooked the first time around had raised its head -- headed by Jim’s niece, Paige. Apparently, crime was ingrained in the Moriarty bloodlines.

“Where is she?”

“We don’t know, sir,” Anthea said.

“What do you mean _you don’t know_?”

“She was spotted by security at Heathrow, at around 7:30 this morning, but they lost her in the crowd,” Anthea answered. “We’re going through a list of her aliases to see if anything pops up.”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and fought the urge to yell at her. Causing a scene wouldn’t help anything. Especially his blood pressure.

“All right,” he said. “I’m on my way back to the office.” And he hung up.

Mycroft called for his car, and then dialled a number he knew by heart, the number of someone who could help. Sherlock.

~~~***~~~

  
Sherlock had been waiting on the stoop when Mycroft pulled up, none too happy about being forced to share a car ride with his brother. Now he was sitting on the other side of the desk, taking in the information Anthea was providing him.

“So, you’re saying she could be _anywhere_ ,” Sherlock said. He gave Mycroft a pointed glare. “Why call me here if you don’t have anything to go on other than that Paige Moriarty has left England?”

Mycroft winced. Sherlock was upset. Not that he blamed him. He’d be upset too being summoned out of Baker Street for something with no useful information.

“Best to be prepared, don’t you think, brother mine?”

Sherlock set his jaw, as contempt set into his face. “And let me guess; you want me to do the legwork for you once you know what’s going on.”

Mycroft returned Sherlock’s gaze with a wry smile. “It would be nice.” He winced again; the freezing in his face was wearing off.

Sherlock didn’t move.

Mycroft frowned. “It would be nice to be able to spring the moment we know where she’s headed, don’t you think?”

“Mm.” Sherlock tapped his foot on the floor twice and then stood. “Alright. Fine.” He snatched his Belstaff from the coat rack.

Gratitude swept through Mycroft, but he hid it beneath stoicism. “You’ll want to pack the minute you get home. You could be leaving at any moment.”

“On one condition,” Sherlock said.

Annoyance quickly replaced the gratitude. “Yes?”

“John comes with me.”

Mycroft barely won a fight with an eye roll. “Of course.” He lifted the receiver of the phone on his desk. “Phoning him now.”

“Good.” Sherlock issued a curt nod to Anthea and Mycroft, and then left.

Mycroft watched Sherlock leave, no longer able to ignore the pit in his stomach. Had they been so heavily focused on Jim that they’d completely missed any evidence suggesting a separate chapter? Was James’s brother involved too? Jacob Moriarty was a station master, and would have ample opportunity to run an illegal operation hidden under the noses of the general public. Transactions could be made easily in a busy train station, and the mules would be gone as quickly as they arrived and on the other side of the country in a matter of hours. They could be in different countries in a few more hours. Paige Moriarty already was.

Mycroft pulled up John’s number and rubbed his eyes as the phone dialled out. What had they missed?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets the call to be prepared to leave London on a moment's notice. But when he gets home, he discovers something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

John’s headache worsened. Mycroft had always had that effect on him, but this was worse. Sleeping dogs were refusing to lie, and he and Sherlock were being sent on a mission to make sure they did.

“Haven’t the Moriartys learned anything from Sherlock’s systematic dismantling of their corporation?” he asked.

“Apparently not,” Mycroft answered. “And you and I both know that Sherlock won’t go without you.”

John knew it. And Sherlock had probably signed up the moment Mycroft mentioned the surname. Hell, he was pretty much on board himself.

“Okay. When do you want us to leave?” John asked.

John practically heard Mycroft’s knowing smile through the phone. The older Holmes knew John could never resist a potentially dangerous case.

“As soon as I tell you,” Mycroft answered. “So, I’d advise you to go home and pack a bag. Be prepared to leave at any time.”

_Of course_. “Right.”

“I’ll phone when I have more information,” Mycroft said. Then he hung up.

John put his phone back into his pocket and exhaled heavily. Now he had to get out of almost an entire afternoon of patients. _Mycroft, you’re lucky I’m in love with your brother._

He inhaled sharply, and made his way to Dr. Verner’s office. He rapped on the door.

“Yes?”

John opened the door just enough to poke his head in. “Sorry to disturb you, Doctor, but there’s been an emergency, and I need to go out of town for a couple of days. Possibly for the rest of the week. Would you mind covering my patients?”

Dr. Verner swivelled his chair around to face John. His eyes were wide. “For the rest of the week?”

John cringed. “Well, yes. It’s Sherlock—”

Mild concern crinkled Dr. Verner’s already creased forehead. “Is everything all right?”

“Uh, yes? No? I don’t know,” John answered. “Sherlock just phoned, and he never phones unless it’s really important.” He was lying, but it was his easiest way out.

Dr. Verner nodded with a sympathetic smile. “Do what you need to do, Doctor.”

“Thank you.”

“I hope everything’s okay,” Dr. Verner said.

“Me too.” He closed the door and hurried back to his office to gather his things. He checked his watch once he’d shoved his arms into his coat. 3:30pm. He’d be home by 4:30 and packed by 5. Then he’d play the waiting game until Mycroft gave him and Sherlock further instructions.

He left his office and hastily made his way down the hall.

Dr. Verner’s voice drifted through his closed door. “…You have a fungal infection, Mr. Evans, but I’ll give you—”

John couldn’t help the smile that spread onto his face as he passed Dr. Verner’s office. _Dodged a bullet there, didn’t you, Watson. Thank you, Mycroft_.

 

 ~~~***~~~

  

The subway rocked back and forth as it went through the tunnel. John held onto to the pole, watching the lights of the tunnel race by the window. There were plenty of seats available, but he knew if he sat down his thoughts would take over completely and he’d miss Baker Street. It wouldn’t be the first time, and would be far from the last, but he couldn’t risk it today. The Moriartys were at it again.

But who was Paige? How did she factor in? As far as John knew, Jim didn’t have any children. But, he did have a brother who was a station master somewhere in the west of England. Was Paige the brother’s daughter? And why had she left England? Was she part of a rebuild of Jim’s network? The network Sherlock had worked so hard for two years to tear down? The reason Sherlock had leapt off of…

John closed his eyes tight, forcing the memory away. Things had turned out fine, and Sherlock had used his falsified suicide for the good of just about everyone, but that didn’t make the memory hurt any less. He didn’t know if it ever wouldn’t hurt.

But, that was then, this was now. Jim Moriarty was dead, but his legacy wasn’t. And Sherlock was needed to stop it. But what did Paige Moriarty have planned?

“ _Arriving at Baker Street_.”

The automated stop message pulled John out of his thoughts and back to the task at hand. Get home, and pack. And ask Molly to look after Rosie while he and Sherlock were gone.

The train doors opened and John hurried through the station and up to the street, tapping out a text to Molly.

_Hi Molly. Would you mind taking Rosie for a few days? Mycroft is sending Sherlock and me to take care of a few things. Something to do with Moriarty’s family._

John tapped ‘SEND’ the second he had reception again. His phone buzzed as he crossed the street. On the stoop, he checked the message.

**_Molly               now  
_** _No problem. I’ll pick her up from nursery today. Be careful._

John tapped out a quick reply.

_You’re a lifesaver. Thank you._

As he unlocked the door, he phoned the nursery to tell them Molly would be picking Rosie up tonight. Without going into too much detail, he informed them that Rosie would be in Molly’s care, likely until the end of the week.

Putting his phone back in his pocket, he entered the flat. The interior door was open, and the floor was shinier than usual. Mrs. Hudson had just mopped. John almost didn’t want to walk over the clean floor. Almost.

He trotted upstairs, mentally apologizing to Mrs. Hudson for the fresh shoe prints he was tracking inside.

“Sherlock? Is everything all right?” John asked, stepping inside the flat. “Your brother said it was ur…gent.”

The flat was empty. Sherlock wasn’t sitting in his chair, nor was he back at the kitchen table looking at slides through his microscope. The kettle wasn’t plugged in and boiling. Where was he?

“Sherlock?” John called.

No answer.

He tried again.

Nothing.

John walked over to Sherlock’s chair and felt the cushion. Room temperature. Sherlock hadn’t been in it for a while.

He looked through the kitchen and down the hall. The bedroom door was open, but there was no sign of anyone in it. John walked down the hall and stepped inside the room. A small suitcase was open on the bed, partially packed.

_Strange…_ A knot started to form in John’s stomach.

“Sherlock?!”

He poked his head into the bathroom. Empty. Then he went to the upstairs bedroom. Also empty.

He returned to the main floor of the flat, and checked the kitchen table and counter for a note. They were empty. He checked the mantle. Nothing but unopened correspondences. The end tables, the coffee table, the wall behind the couch. No note. Nothing to explain his absence.

The knot in John’s stomach grew. Where was Sherlock?

He ran downstairs. “Mrs. Hudson!” He knocked loudly on her door.

Mrs. Hudson answered it a moment later. She looked a little worn out, and her mop was leaning against the wall behind her. “John. You’re home early. Is everything all right?”

“Have you seen Sherlock?”

“Not since Mycroft picked him up earlier, dear,” Mrs. Hudson answered. “But then, I did run to the store. He came back while I was out. Tracked in dirt from somewhere. I just cleaned it up.”

John’s stomach knot tightened painfully. “How long have you been home?”

“Maybe half an hour,” Hudson answered.

John rushed to the front door. He barely heard Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps behind him. He looked at the foyer, to the stairs, and back again several times.

The foyer and hall were freshly mopped. The stairs weren’t, but they didn’t appear to have the tracked-in dirt Mrs. Hudson claimed the foyer did. Whatever happened, happened while Mrs. Hudson was out and interrupted Sherlock’s packing.

“He did come home while you were out,” John said. “But I don’t think it was him who tracked in the dirt you cleaned up.” John didn’t want to finish telling her the rest of his thoughts. She wouldn’t like them any more than he did. So, instead, he opened the outside door and stepped out onto the pavement.

Fear bubbled in gut, but he forced it down. He couldn’t let it overwhelm him. He had to play the cool, calm detective today.

His eyes scanned the door frame searching for any sign of forced entry, a sign of a struggle. The frame gave him no clues. He turned his attention to the foyer floor. And was momentarily angry with his landlady. She’d cleaned up the best evidence they had.

Had Sherlock left willingly? Why? With whom? Had he received a threatening phone call? If he had, why was there a mess of dirty shoe prints when Mrs. Hudson came home? And those prints didn’t go up the stairs. No. Sherlock came downstairs to answer the door, and whoever he answered it for had coerced him out. But how? How had they convinced him to leave when he’d been given a case? Was it related to Paige Moriarty? Had he been called back to MI6?

John went back upstairs and pulled his phone out of his pocket; hr pulled up Sherlock in his contacts.

_Where are you?_ He texted.

A muffled ping came from the bedroom.

John followed it. Sticking out from beneath the folded over bed sheet was Sherlock’s phone. John picked it up.

**John    1 min ago  
** _Where are you?_

Sherlock didn’t leave willingly. Not without his phone. He never went _anywhere_ without it. This was not good.

John rushed back down the stairs. As he did, he scrolled through his contacts again and phoned Mycroft.

“Having second thoughts, John?” Mycroft answered on the second ring.

“No,” John answered. “But things just got a bit more complicated. Sherlock’s not here.”

“What do you mean he’s not there?” Mycroft asked. “He was leaving my office when I phoned you.”

“And he was home,” John answered. “He was starting to pack; his suitcase is open on our bed. But when I got home, the flat was empty. He’s not here.” As he spoke, he continued to look around the foyer floor and the pavement around the front step.

“He couldn’t have just disappeared,” Mycroft said.

“If he did, I don’t think it was of his own accord.”

“Are you sure he hasn’t just stepped out?” Mycroft asked.

“And leave a half-packed suitcase?” John questioned.

“Wouldn’t be the first time he’d left something unfinished to accomplish something else,” Mycroft said.

That was true. But John couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. _Very wrong_.

“It wouldn’t,” John agreed. “But, he also left his phone. He never goes anywhere without his phone. Something’s wrong, Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s nervous sigh wasn’t lost on John, but he ignored it. He had to in order to keep himself together. Sherlock depended on it.

“Have you found any evidence as to what might have happened?” Mycroft asked.

John backed away from the front door, his eyes never leaving the pavement. “No. Not ye—” Something laying against the wall of Speedy’s, near the concave corner of the step, caught his eye. Something that did not belong there.

A hypodermic syringe. With a broken needle.

_Shit_.

“Mrs. Hudson!” John called.

“Yes, d—”

“Serviette! Handkerchief! Something! _Now!_ ” John barked.

Mrs. Hudson cringed audibly and hurried back inside.

John kicked himself mentally. “Please and thank you!” he called after her. _Keep your head together, Watson._

“What is it, John?”

_Right, Mycroft._

“A syringe,” John answered. “Hypodermic. Not far from the door.”

Mrs. Hudson returned with a pair of small tongs and a Ziploc freezer bag, and John was reminded that Martha Louise Hudson was far from your average landlady. He silently praised her as he took the items.

He picked up the syringe with the tongs and examined it closely. Standard, narrow syringe, easily hidden in a sleeve. Tiny red droplets clung to the end of syringe.

John’s stomach dropped. “Shit.”

“What?” Mycroft’s voice startled him.

“Blood,” John answered. “Not a lot of it!” he added, but he wasn’t sure if it was more for Mycroft’s comfort or his own. “A very small amount actually, it—”

Mycroft’s sigh told John to stop talking.

John swallowed. “What is going on?”

There was a moment’s silence and then, “I don’t know.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft arrives at 221B to investigate Sherlock's disappearance himself. While investigating, he receives a phone call and things get complicated.

Mycroft got out of the car at the edge of the police tape, ignoring the growing crowd of onlookers. The constable lifted the tape and Mycroft ducked beneath it, and then stood on the pavement outside 221 Baker Street. John was standing in the open doorway. Behind John, Lestrade was talking with Mrs. Hudson.

Mycroft moved his eyes slowly, meticulously, over the pavement between the door to Speedy’s and the flat next door. John was smart, but always missed the things that jumped out at Sherlock.

A black mark, from the sole of a shoe, was on the edge of the bottom step. Mycroft knelt down for a closer look. The mark was dark, fresh. Someone had slipped.

He straightened and motioned for John to step back. John did, and Mycroft stepped into the foyer, closing the door behind him. The wall on the leeward side of the door was chipped and dented a few centimetres below the wainscoting. It was just the right height to match the doorknob.

“This door was forced open,” Mycroft mused.

“We didn’t find any signs of forced entry,” Lestrade said.

“Of course you didn’t,” Mycroft answered, “because it was forced open after Sherlock opened it.” He stepped back a couple of feet. The wall on his left had a story to tell, as well.

Just above his eye level, was a small dent, and above it, a long, thin scratch in the paint.

Mycroft raised his arm and hovered his elbow over the dent. The scene became inescapably clear in his mind’s eye. So clear, he watched it play out in front of him.

He relayed what he was seeing to the others. “Sherlock came home to pack, but was interrupted by someone at the door. He answered it.” Mycroft opened the door. “And was attacked, probably by at least two assailants. He tried to shut the door on them. It didn’t work. There was a fight. Someone’s elbow nearly went through the wall.” He raised his elbow to the dent for emphasis. “Based on the angle and the size of this dent, Sherlock’s.”

Mycroft stepped out onto the front step. “Somewhere between there and here, Sherlock was injected with whatever sedative was in that syringe you found, John, which was either thrown aside or dropped – my brother’s size can make handling him quite cumbersome – and,” he stepped onto the pavement and walked to the edge of the curb, “he was carried into a waiting vehicle.” Tyre marks made by a fast getaway were on the road in front of him.

Mycroft swallowed, trying to dislodge the frog that had taken up residency in his throat. It took more effort than usual to turn around and face the people gathered in the foyer.

“John, go upstairs and pack. Quickly,” he said.

“But, we don’t know where Sherlock is,” John protested.

Mycroft didn’t bother fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “No, we don’t. But we’re going to find out. Pack. You’re coming to MI6 with me and when we know where Sherlock is, we’ll be leaving from there.”

“Right.” John nodded, turned on his heel, and disappeared up the stairs.

“You should go home and pack too, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said. “We may need you to help us coordinate with other local authorities.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “Other local authorities?”

“Paige Moriarty has left England,” Mycroft answered.

Dread crossed Lestrade’s face. “Right.” He gave Mrs. Hudson’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’m sorry.”

Mrs. Hudson waved it off. “No, no; it’s alright. You’ve got a job to do.”

Lestrade exited 221, and hurried to his car.

Mycroft met Mrs. Hudson’s eyes. They held a curious mix of concern and guilt. Why? Why the guilt?

Slowly, he re-entered the flat. And noticed the floor.

“Please don’t tell me you mopped up evidence…” Mycroft did his best to keep his voice quiet, to keep his frustration from boiling over.

She couldn’t have known, Mycroft, his logic argued.

If she wasn’t such a clean housekeeper…

Don’t let your emotions win.

“I thought Sherlock had tracked it in,” Mrs. Hudson answered. “He does that sometimes. You should see the mud he tracks in after a stroll in the park when it rains. And he never offers to help…”

Oh, please shut up, Mrs. Hudson. But Mycroft couldn’t stay mad with her. He knew the landlady was merely trying to keep a clean house, and he knew doing that with Sherlock around was difficult on a good day. The dirt and mud he and Victor used to bring into Musgrave after playing in the garden all afternoon… it was a wonder Mummy didn’t get angry. If she did, she never let it show. She just scolded them for not removing their shoes, and then cleaned everything up after Victor had left. There was never any trace of dirt come morning. Mycroft had no idea how Mummy did it back then, and had no idea how Mrs. Hudson did it now.

Mycroft sat down heavily on the second step, setting his head in his hands. Sherlock’s disappearance couldn’t have been coincidence. The universe was rarely so lazy. It had to be connected to Paige Moriarty’s sudden urge to journey across the pond. She knew Sherlock would be brought in on the case once word of her travel got to MI6 and, without Sherlock, catching her would take longer. The best way to avoid being prey was to eliminate the apex predator. Except, kidnapping Sherlock really only guaranteed one thing: pursuit by a protective ex-army Captain and an angry big brother with powerful connections. Paige Moriarty had made a grave mistake.

The ringing of his phone pulled Mycroft abruptly out of his thoughts.

**_Anthea calling_ ** _…_

Mycroft groaned. Now what?

“Yes,” Mycroft answered.

“Are you sitting down?” Anthea asked.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am,” Mycroft said. “What’s going on?”

“Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft sat up straight. There was a voice he hadn’t expected to hear on an inbound call. “Mrs. Elspeth.”

Kimberly Elspeth, the tough as nails woman who had taken over leadership of Sherrinford after David’s death. Why was she phoning MI6? Had something happened to Eurus? Mycroft wasn’t sure he could handle any more bad news.

“Has something happened to my sister?” Better to cut to the chase.

There was a pause and then, “She got out.”

Mycroft closed his eyes, his eyebrows rising. “She what?”

“She got out,” Elspeth repeated. “We went to deliver her breakfast and she was gone.”

The anger Mycroft had been suppressing was no longer containable. “What do you mean _she got out_? Her cell was secure, _she_ was secure. I personally made sure of it after the last time. _How did she get out?_ You are aware of how dangerous she is, yes? Don’t make me fire every person there; it will take far too much time and energy to replace everyone.”

“You and your brother infiltrated the facility pretty easily from what I’ve learned,” Elspeth said. “Even managed to get David to give Sherlock the keycard to access your sister’s cell.”

Mycroft visibly grimaced. Mrs. Hudson looked worried about him.

Mycroft took a breath. “All right, you made your point. But, you still haven’t answered my question. How did she get out?”

“We’re still trying to figure it out—”

“Still trying to figure it—”

“Sherrinford is _not_ impenetrable,” Elspeth interjected, a sharpness in her voice that told Mycroft she was not putting up with his authority. “And from what we have been able to figure out, she had help. Inside help.”

Knots tied Mycroft’s stomach. Inside help? He had personally met every guard employed at Sherrinford. Every. Single. One. Who had gotten by? Who had he been wrong about?

“Do we know from whom?” Mycroft asked.

“We think it may have been Frank Kurth. We haven’t seen him since about 11:30 last night,” Elspeth answered. “He should have been at work today. I’ve already sent someone to his residence.”

Elspeth may have only been a few steps above a civilian, but she was always on the ball, and Mycroft had never been so thankful that he promoted her.

“And of Eurus?” Mycroft asked. “Anthea, do you have any information on where she could be?”

“We’re looking,” Anthea answered.

“Obviously not hard enough,” Mycroft scoffed. He sighed, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “I will be back at MI6 in about half an hour. Find everything you can on Eurus’s whereabouts. We need to find her. Mrs. Elspeth, call me the minute you find anything regarding Kurth.”

“Yes, sir,” Elspeth said. “You’ll know as soon as I do.”

“Good.”

 _Click_.

“Anthea,” Mycroft said. “Pull up every surveillance camera within a two kilometre radius of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock’s been abducted.”

“Abducted?” Anthea repeated.

“That’s what I said,” Mycroft answered. “I’ll be back at MI6 with John in about half an hour. I want those cameras ready for viewing by the time I get there.”

“Yes, s—”

Mycroft hung up before she could finish and he hung his head.

A gentle hand set itself on his shoulder. He didn’t have to look up to know Mrs. Hudson was offering him what comfort she could.

“That didn’t sound like a pleasant call,” she said.

“It wasn’t.”

Mycroft lifted his head as footsteps on the stairs behind him signalled John’s return.

“Mycroft?”

Mycroft stood up. “Things just got even more complicated.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mycroft look a bit deeper into Eurus's disappearance.

John’s right leg bounced. The usually comfortable chair across from Mycroft’s desk currently felt hard as a rock and no amount of shifting positions helped. It wouldn’t until he knew Sherlock was safe.

Where was he? John went through the state of the flat over and over in his mind. Sherlock had been there, at the very least long enough to begin packing for the mission Mycroft was sending them on. Thinking back, John was a bit surprised Sherlock hadn’t started packing his things too. He usually did when they were going out of town. Everything would be already packed by the time John got home from work. All they had to do was lock up the flat, and head to the station. Sometimes, John didn’t even need to go home at all. Sherlock was meticulous like that. But today, Sherlock hadn’t had time to pack his own suitcase before he was interrupted and forced out of the flat.

But by whom? Had they been hired? Was Sherlock’s abduction a ploy to keep them off of Paige Moriarty’s trail? Did they have anything to do with Paige at all? Were they completely separate? Someone Sherlock had pissed off at some point perhaps? After all, Sherlock was a man of many enemies. Maybe it was someone he’d failed to help? A relative of someone who’d been killed as a result of Sherlock not deeming their case important? Who was behind it?

And Eurus. How did she factor in to all this?  Was her escaping Sherrinford –  _ again _ – tied to a Moriarty? Eurus had known who James was, and had even been granted an unsupervised meeting with him eight years ago. John wasn’t sure he’d never not be angry about that.

But this was not the time nor place to bring that up. In the years since their first encounter with Eurus, things had been going well. Eurus had been stable, she’d been opening up to Sherlock, their violin concertos had progressed to include conversation – fairly pleasant conversation at that. She’d even apologised to John for sticking him in the well, though John wasn’t entirely sure she’d actually meant it. He’d appreciated it at any rate.

How had she gotten out? Who helped her? Why? Had she simply gotten a bad case of cabin fever or had she relapsed? If she’d relapsed, what did she have planned? Did she have anything planned at all? Was her disappearance tied to Sherlock’s? Had she also been abducted but Kimberly Elspeth thought she’d escaped? Was Elspeth in on it too? Why would someone want to kidnap Eurus?  _ What the hell was going on? _

“The surveillance footage from Sherrinford.”

John nearly leapt out of his skin at the sound of Anthea’s voice. The woman barely paid him any heed as she handed a USB to Mycroft.

Mycroft lifted his head from his hands. “And the footage from around Sherlock’s flat?”

“They’re working on it, sir,” Anthea answered.

“They’re  _ working on it _ ?”

John cringed. Mycroft’s voice was taut, and he was taking in slow breaths. He was trying, desperately, to keep himself from yelling at the poor woman.

“They have the make and model of the vehicle,” Anthea said, “as well as the license plate. They’re tracking it and will send you both the footage and whatever information they find.”

Mycroft sighed, and apology crossed his face. “Thank you,” he said, and took the USB from Anthea before dismissing her with as polite a wave as he could muster. He put the USB into his computer and beckoned John forward with his hand.

John didn’t have to be told twice. He was on his feet immediately, and wasted no time in standing behind Mycroft. The video footage was on the screen a moment later.

A Caucasian male John assumed was Frank Kurth was seen entering Eurus’s cell several times over the course of two days. The two chatted for a few minutes and then Kurth would leave again. Yesterday, February 11 th , the visits stopped, and Eurus was alone. She played her violin, wandered her room, ate, and went to bed for the night. This morning’s routine played out the same as it had yesterday morning. Exactly the same. Something was wrong.

A frustrated sigh from Mycroft told John his hunch was probably correct.

“Someone’s tampered with the video,” Mycroft said. He played the video back, speeding it up. He pointed to the lower right corner of the screen.

John looked. “Twelfth of February, 2019.”

He didn’t have to look at Mycroft to know the man was rolling his eyes at his incompetence.  _ Not everyone has your brain, Mycroft. _

“The timestamp. Keep a  _ close _ eye on it.” Mycroft played part of the video back, and sped it up.

John did as he was asked, leaning in a bit closer to the screen. Then he saw it. The date changed at midnight as it should have, but the second two in the twelve looked odd.  _ Son of a bitch _ .

“It’s been altered.”

“And what we’re seeing is a loop from yesterday,” Mycroft added.

Mycroft sped up the video.

At 9:02 that morning, the footage abruptly went from an occupied cell to an empty one.

John growled. “So, there’s no footage of her  _ actually _ leaving.”

“And all we have to suggest Kurth is behind it is that he didn’t show up for work,” Mycroft sighed. He looked up at John. “John, remind me to check the IQs of everyone I hire in the future? I need to stop hiring imbeciles. We would have known about this  _ hours ago _ if someone with half a brain had noticed the timestamp.”

John could feel Mycroft’s anger building alongside his own. He took a breath and held it for a moment before slowly letting it go again. He couldn’t let his anger dictate his reactions. And neither could Mycroft. Sherlock – and possibly Eurus – depended on it.

They needed to find something, anything, that would give them a clue as to where the siblings were. Maybe there was something in the meetings Kurth had with Eurus before the video was tampered.

“Mycroft, go back to where Kurth and Eurus are talking?” he asked. “Maybe there’s something there we missed. A gesture, a word, a… something.”

Mycroft wound the footage back to where John requested, and let it play at normal speed.

John leaned in closer to the screen, watching their hands, their feet, their fingers, their lips. Their arms hung loosely at their sides, and there was no indication of secret gestures between them. With no sound, he couldn’t quite make out what they were saying to each other. But then, something caught his eye.

He nudged Mycroft’s hand away from the mouse, ignoring the steely glare he received, and watched the conversation again, keeping a steady eye on Kurth’s lips. Something about a plan, getting out, and a… a page?

_ Page… Paige. Shit! _

“Mycroft,” he called. “This isn’t good.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Mycroft scoffed. “Both of my siblings are  _ missing! _ ”

“And Paige Moriarty is behind both of them.”

“What?”

John played it back one more time. “Watch Kurth’s lips.” Certainly Mycroft could lipread. Probably better than he could!

Mycroft sighed a moment later. “Shit.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft, John, and Lestrade prepare for transatlantic travel, and Mycroft hopes he hasn't just made a huge mistake.

Mycroft watched the surveillance footage several more times, and caught one more oddity with the timestamp. At fifteen minutes before midnight last night, Eurus’s sleeping position abruptly changed and the timestamp jumped. 23:57 did not come directly after 23:45.

He picked up the phone and dialed Elspeth’s direct line. The ringing in his ear seemed louder and hollower than usual.

How hadn’t he noticed the time jump the first few times? Had he been so distracted by the interaction between Kurth and Eurus that he’d failed to see it? Was his fear over his missing siblings altering his ability to function at full capacity? Was he allowing sentiment to cloud his judgement? Was he slowing down? How could he have missed this?

“Elspeth.” The woman finally answered the phone.

 “Why didn’t you mention the power had gone out on last night?”

“Pardon me?”

“The power went out last night between 11:45 and 11:57 that evening,” Mycroft said. “Why was I not made aware of this?”

“We didn’t—”

“Obviously,”

Mycroft sneered. “And, apparently, twelve minutes was enough time for my sister to get out of her cell—”

“Her and everyone else, Mr. Holmes,” Elspeth cut in. “Do you have any idea what happens when contained criminals are suddenly let out of their cells? It’s chaos. We’re lucky there were no injuries more serious than cuts and bruises.”

Mycroft tried to bite his tongue, but emotion won over. “And no one thought to make sure Eurus was still there?! How could she have gotten past the chaos that was between her and the way out?”

There was a brief pause and then Elspeth took a breath. “We don’t know, sir. All we know is that she got out and Frank Kurth may have been the one who helped her do it.”

 _And Frank Kurth may have been the one who helped her do it. **May**_.

Mycroft took a breath and held it for a moment. He clenched his fist, as he slowly exhaled. When he noticed the whiteness of his knuckles, he made a mental note to invest in a stress ball before the evening was through.

“Was Kurth home when the authorities arrived?” Mycroft tried to keep his voice calm.

“N-no,” Elspeth stammered. There was a short silence and then, “We don’t know where he is, sir.”

_Wonderful._

“The police have a BOLO out on him now, sir,” Elspeth said. “The information has been relayed to all of England’s branches, as well as every airport and transit hub in the country.”

“That’s if he’s still _in_ the country to begin with,” Mycroft sighed. He ran a hand down over his face. He’d had enough incompetence for one day. “Well, while Dr.Watson and I search for my brother and sister, you are going to search for the origin of that power outage and get back to me the _second_ you find it. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,sir,” Elspeth replied.

Mycroft slammed the phone back into the cradle. It was far more satisfying than hanging up on a cell phone.

“Is this a bad time?”

Mycroft looked up at the door. Lestrade was poking his head into the office, both eyebrows raised in concern and confusion, a leather go-bag in his hand.

“Well, it isn’t good.” He leaned back in his chair. “Eurus is missing,too.”

Lestrade’s face fell slack. “What? How?”

“By the incompetence of the staff at Sherrinford,” Mycroft answered through gritted teeth.

Lestrade set his bag down on the polished concrete floor. “Do we know where she may be headed?”

Mycroft slowly tilted his head to the side, this time unable to keep his annoyance at bay. “If we knew that, Inspector, she wouldn’t be missing.”

Lestrade cringed apologetically, and sat down in the chair in front of Mycroft’s desk. “Yes, I know. But sometimes there are indications.”

Mycroft shook his head. “All we know is it was an inside job. Sherrinford lost power for twelve minutes last night. In that time, someone set the surveillance camera in her room to play on a loop. They even doctored the time stamp to show for the next day. It wasn’t until they delivered her breakfast that they noticed she was gone.”

“And no leads,” Lestrade supplied.

“Only that one of Sherrinford’s staff, Frank Kurth, didn’t show up for work this morning, and that Paige Moriarty is out of the country,” Mycroft answered. “Which is what I need you for. I’m going to need you to coordinate with local law enforcement. I need as little resistance as possible.”

Lestrade nodded. Then his eyebrows came together. He took in a couple of breaths as trains of thought slowly came together to form one track. It was almost painful for Mycroft to watch.

“Do you think Paige Moriarty could be behind all of it?”

Mycroft stared at the man in front of him. Of all the questions he’d expected Lestrade to ask, that wasn’t one of them. For once, the Inspector was thinking right.

“She is,” Mycroft answered. “John noticed Kurth mention her name in the surveillance footage.”

“Maybe Paige took Eurus with her,” Lestrade suggested.

Mycroft paused. A twisted pit opened in his stomach. “Oh, God, I hope not.”

The click of heels in the hall announced Anthea’s impending entry and made Mycroft’s heart skip. Hopefully she had more information.

Anthea entered the office a moment later, with John following close behind.

“Paige Moriarty left England with another passenger this morning,” Anthea said. “She left on Air Canada flight 869 at 8:30. Destination: Toronto.”

“ _Maybe Paige took Eurus with her_ ,” Lestrade had said a moment ago. The pit in his stomach twisted further. That other passenger was… _Goddammit!_

“You might be right, Detective.”

Lestrade blinked at him. “I what?”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “Anthea just said Paige Moriarty left England with another passenger,” he explained. “That other passenger was my sister.”

Lestrade immediately stood from the chair. “I’ll get in contact with Toronto police.”

“Paige Moriarty used an alias when she left London,” Anthea said. “Paula Moranis.”

“And my sister?” Mycroft asked.

“Paige got on the plane with an Evelyn Homestead,” John answered. “The flight landed in Toronto at 11:15am, Toronto time.”

“Paige’s credit card, under the Paula Moranis alias, was used to purchase a Canadian SIM card, and a prepaid cellphone at 11:30pm,” Anthea continued. “Paige activated one of the SIM cards shortly afterwards, and on then phoned a shuttle service, presumably for transportation from Toronto airport. The prepaid cell phone was used to call the same shuttle service shortly after Paige did. Evelyn Homestead then transferred onto Air Canada flight 1837 to Phoenix which left Toronto at 12:05, Toronto time, this afternoon.”

_Phoenix? Why the hell would Eurus go to Phoenix of all places?_

“Please tell me you have the number for this shuttle service,” Mycroft said.

Anthea set a piece of paper on Mycroft’s desk with the name, address, and phone number of the company.

Lestrade took his notepad out of the inside breast pocket of his coat, and jotted the information down. “If I can borrow a phone, I’ll get in contact with Toronto Police.”

“You can use Anthea’s office.” Mycroft looked at the address. Pickering, Ontario. _Where?_ “And you may want to contact the Ontario Provincial Police while you’re at it. This shuttle service isn’t located in Toronto.”

“That’s already done, sir,” Anthea said. “I contacted the local law enforcement that looks after the city of Pickering and they’ve given us the go ahead to get what information we need. They’ve also sent an email to the woman who booked the reservations, and have faxed the shuttle company she works for, granting her permission to give us what we need.”

Lestrade nodded, and left the room.

Mycroft looked up at Anthea and John. “Do we know who this woman who took the reservations is?”

“We do,” Anthea answered. Mycroft didn’t have to ask how.

Sheplaced another sheet of paper down in front of him. On it was the photo, and just about every piece of information, of a young woman with sandy-brown hairand green eyes.

“Katherine Matlock,” Anthea said.

 _Whatever would I do without you?_ “Thank you, Anthea.” Mycroft looked at his pocket watch. Almost 7pm. 2pm in Toronto. He picked up his phone, and dialed the cell phone registered to Katherine.

It rang until it went to voicemail. Mycroft didn’t have time to leave a message and wait for a return phone call. He hung up and called again. That call, too, went to voicemail.

Mycroft cursed under his breath. _Don’t tell me she’s one of those who won’t answer a number she doesn’t recognise…_ He tried again.

It rang three times and then, “Hello?”

_Finally._

“Katherine Matlock?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Mycroft Holmes with MI6,” Mycroft began.

“...Okay.” Katherine sounded cautious.

“You booked transportation for two passengers, yesterday; a Paula Moranis and an Evelyn Homestead. One would have had an Irish accent, the other an English one.”

“Uh, I might have, but what is this about?” Katherine asked. “I can’t be giving client information to just anyone.” Her words were honest and careful, her tone uncertain, but genuinely friendly – the kind of friendly not easily disguised.

“If you would, kindly, check your email or the company fax machine, you will find permission for this information has been granted.”

“…Okay,” Katherine answered. The sound of movement came from the other end of the phone, followed by the crinkle of a page. “All right. What do you need?”

“I need what information you have on those two passengers,” Mycroft said.

Katherine clarified the names again, and the clicking of a keyboard was heard. In the background, a two-way radio beeped and a female voice, rather loudly, informed someone of a traffic delay.

“Paula Moranis phoned at approximately 11:30 this morning to book a last minute trip from the airport to an address in Oshawa,” she spoke after a moment. “At the same time, she booked her return to the airport for Friday, the fifteenth.”

Hope billowed in Mycroft’s stomach. “So, Paula Moranis is still in Oshawa?”

“Presumably,” Katherine answered. “We’re picking her up at 6:30 Friday morning; she has an 11am flight aboard Ethiopian Airlines flight 503 to Addis Ababa, and is due back on the twenty-sixth.”

“You’d might as well go ahead and cancel those reservations, Ms. Matlock,” Mycroft said. “She will not be getting on that flight, nor will you be phoning her to tell her of this cancellation, do you understand?”

“Yes.” Another series of keyboard clicks came through the phone. “Okay. And Evelyn Homestead… hasn’t used us since May 4th, 2015.”

Mycroft frowned. Then realised Eurus, now out of Britain, may have felt safe to use her own surname. “Try the last name of Holmes, first initial, E.”

The keyboard clicked in the background. “I have lots of people with a first name beginning with E… But, I think I remember speaking to an _Ellen_ Holmes today.” More typing. “Yes. She booked a one way trip from Pearson to Whitby for March 2nd, arriving at 21:22 on Air Canada flight 1836 from Phoenix.”

“What time did she phone this morning?” Mycroft asked.

“About 11:40,” Katherine answered. “I’m sorry I don’t have any more information,” There was a pause and then, “But is there anything else I can do to help?”

“No,” Mycroft answered. The faster he could get off the phone with a civilian, the better. “You’ve given me all I need.”

He was about the hang up and then, “With respect, sir,” Katherine spoke. Movement in the background told him she was moving to somewhere a bit more private. Mycroft cringed, and thought about hanging up on her anyway but, there was something in her voice, a genuine concern that kept him from doing so. “You have asked me to break company policy, and I know I was granted permission to do so, but I want to know why.” Her voice was hushed. “I need to know that what I have just done isn’t going to get somebody into unnecessary trouble. I need my conscience to be clear, sir.”

Damned people and their consciences. But, there was an honesty in her voice he couldn’t easily dismiss. She needed to know she hadn’t just made the biggest mistake of her life.

Mycroft took a breath, trying to figure out how to not make the biggest mistake of his. “You aren’t getting anyone into trouble, but you are helping with an international investigation.”

“And my customers are that investigation?” Earnest curiosity shaped Katherine’s question.

 “They’re two thirds of it.” The words were out of Mycroft’s mouth before he could stop them.

 “Two thirds of it?” Katherine repeated. “What’s the third... third?”

Mycroft cringed. He’d said too much. “It’s complicated,” he sighed.

“Sounds like it,” Katherine said. “...Is everything okay?” Her voice had turned soft and cautious; kind.

Mycroft blinked. Was she really concerned about an MI6 agent she didn’t know from Adam? Did she treat everyone this way? Why? Humans were strange.

He pulled in a cautious breath. “What I’m about to tell you does not go beyond this conversation, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know the name, Sherlock Holmes?”

“The detective?”

Mycroft nearly groaned. “Yes, the detective.”

“What about him? And what does he have to do with my customers?”

“Paula Moranis is an alias used by Paige Moriarty, the niece of James Moriarty, who was the head of an international crime organisation,” Mycroft answered carefully. “Sherlock dismantled that organisation a few years ago, but we think Paige is continuing where James left off.”

“So, Sherlock Holmes is coming here to stop her?” Katherine asked.

“He was.”

“He was?” Katherine repeated.

Mycroft cringed. Now he’d _really_ said too much... And he couldn’t un-say it. Katherine had been worried about making the biggest mistake of her life. Now, he was worried about making the biggest mistake of his.

“He was kidnapped approximately two hours ago,” he answered, “and we have reason to believe Paige is behind it.”

“And you think she brought Sherlock Holmes here?” Katherine asked.

“Honestly, we don’t know,” Mycroft answered. And he hated it. He hated not knowing.

“And what about Ellen?”

“She’s our sister, Eurus,” Mycroft replied. “She is, indeed, in Phoenix. She transferred to another Air Canada flight at Pearson.”

“Air Canada 1837,” Katherine said.

Mycroft blinked. “How did you know that?”

“By-product of the job, Mr. Holmes,” Katherine answered. “We ask for flight information when we book transportation so we can track flights and know when to expect our passengers. That information includes flight numbers and destinations. After a while, you start to memorise some of them. And Air Canada 1837 is the only direct flight from Toronto to Phoenix.” There was a pause, and he could practically hear the woman on the other end thinking. It was dreadfully painful. Then a breath. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping any boundaries here, but is there any way I can help you find them, Sherlock and Eurus?” she asked. “I want to help.”

Mycroft wanted to tell her no, but… _goddammit_. And the more he thought about it, the more he realised, as much as he hated to admit it, she possessed knowledge he didn’t, and he could use all the help he could get.

“I assume you know Toronto well,” Mycroft said.

“I was born and raised here; it’s my backyard,” Katherine answered.

Mycroft nodded to himself, trying to convince himself he was making the right decision. “Then perhaps there is a way you can help. I will be leaving London, likely within the next couple of hours, with two others, including a detective fromScotland Yard. I don’t want to waste time making travel arrangements when I getthere, and since you have become far more privy to this than any civilian should be, I need you to pick us up when we land.”

“You said you’re MI6, right?”

“That’sright.”

“Then I assume you’ll be landing at Toronto City Centre rather than Pearson?”Katherine asked.

How did she know? _By-product of the job_. “You assume correctly,” he answered.

“All right,” Katherine said. “I’ll expect you in about twelve hours’ time, though I would appreciate a phone call before you take off.”

Mycroft nodded, though he knew she couldn’t see it. He could agree to that. “Of course. Thank you, Ms. Matlock.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Holmes. See you when you get here.”

Anthea was on the phone with Heathrow before Mycroft hung up. The woman did him proud more often than she disappointed him. And really, it wasn’t so much her who disappointed him, but those who answered to her. They were the ones who let two days pass before informing her about Paige Moriarty’s departure from England. No, Anthea wasn’t the one he should have been cross with earlier; it was everyone else. He made a mental note to give her a token of his appreciation when he returned.

But what about this Katherine Matlock? Could she be trusted with the same certainty? Sure, she seemed eager to help, but could they trust her. She was a civilian and he’d just not only given her sensitive information, but had allowed her a small role in their mission. Was he doing the right thing to catch Paige Moriarty? Was he doing the right thing to find his siblings?

He knew where Eurus was, unless she’d transferred on to another city. Phoenix was a large enough city to be a transit hub, but where the spokes of that hub went to, he didn’t know. Likely the west coast of America, and into Mexico. Eurus could have been anywhere.

But Sherlock. Where was he? Where had he been taken? What did Paige have in store for him? And why? Posthumous revenge for Jim’s suicide atop St. Bart’s? To what end? What did she hope to achieve?

The leather of the chair across from him squeaked and Mycroft realized that John was still in the room, sitting in the chair, leg bouncing with pent up anxiety.

John looked at Mycroft expectantly. “So we know Eurus is in, or near, Phoenix… But what the hell is she _doing_ in Phoenix?”

Mycroft shook her head. “I have no idea.”

“And Paige?”

“Paige Moriarty is currently, as far as we know, in the city of Oshawa, Ontario.”

“Anything on Sherlock?” John asked.

Mycroft lowered his gaze, regretting the answer he had to give. “No.” But his gut said otherwise. His gut told him they _did_ have something. A lead. He took a breath and returned his gaze to John. “But, we do know where Paige is, and this Katherine Matlock has offered to help. If we find Paige, there’s a chance she’ll lead us to Sherlock.”

John looked Mycroft square in the eyes, an equal combination of fear and very cautious optimism. “I hope you’re right, Mycroft.”

The look in John’s eyes became an inescapable feeling in every fibre of Mycroft’s body. “So do I.”

 

~~~***~~~

 

Mycroft slipped his phone into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and sat back in the leather seat. Out the window, the lights of Heathrow reflected on the wettarmac. The rain had stopped for the time being, but more was on the way. It was somehow fitting that it mirrored his muddled emotional state. Not that he could let that show, of course. He had to keep himself calm and collected – or at least let it appear that he was. Mycroft Holmes very seldom lost his cool in front of people. Both of the other men on this plane had seen him at less than perfect form – no thanks to the sibling who’d decided Phoenix was a good place to run off to – but it wasn’t something he wanted to make a habit of.

The plane taxied and took off a few minutes later. Mycroft watched the ground get further and further away until they hit the cloud deck and everything disappeared. The cloud deck began to break over Gloucestershire and Bristol. From this altitude, both of Lundy Island’s lighthouses were in view as well as Wales’s Flat Holm and Nash Point to the north. Their beams cut into the night, as both a warning and a beacon of hope to passing ships; a warning to steer clear of the coast’s sharp rocks, and a declaration that land and respite were close.

The further west they flew, the smaller the lighthouse beacons became until they disappeared completely. Soon, there was nothing but a black, empty void, and Mycroft suddenly felt small. Very small. They were going in the right direction for Paige, but were they going the right way for Sherlock? Would they find him in Toronto, or had he been taken elsewhere? And if so, where?

Unable to look out the window any longer, Mycroft pulled the blind down and stared straight ahead. Fortunately, John and Lestrade were sitting on the other side of the plane a few rows back so he didn’t have to look at them. He didn’t have to look at their expressions of fear and worry, expressions that mirrored how he felt. And they didn’t have to watch his silent prayers that Sherlock knew they were coming and would bring him home.

Mycroft closed his eyes and steepled his hands at his chin. _We’re coming, Sherlock._


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three men and a pilot somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean.

John opened his laptop, which Mycroft had generously provided wi-fi for, and retrieved the files Anthea had sent him as they left MI6. Footage from every security and traffic camera the abductors’ vehicle had passed. Plus, footage of the abduction itself.

Mycroft had ceased spying on Baker Street with his drones when John and Rosie had moved in with Sherlock as per John’s very adamant request. Spying on him and Sherlock was one thing, but he was not going to have his daughter’s privacy violated, even if it was under the guise of Uncle Mycroft keeping her safe. Mycroft had security cameras on the street to do that. And the one a couple of doors north of 221 captured just about everything.

Mrs. Hudson stepped out of a taxi with two plastic bags of groceries at 15:40, and went into Speedy’s. She was either too tired from her excursion to make herself a cup of tea, or she was visiting with Mr. Chatterjee. How she’d been able to overlook Chatterjee’s transgressions was beyond John, but she’d accepted things as they were and seemed content with his companionship such as it was.

Sherlock arrived home at 15:46, and a black, late model minivan with heavily tinted windows pulled up from just out of camera range. Two men got out of the vehicle and approached the door. One of them rang the doorbell. The button was pressed three times before Sherlock opened it. The two men acted immediately, and the struggle Mycroft had described played out. In that struggle, and as a result of being drugged, Sherlock slipped on the outside step and the man responsible for drugging him dropped the syringe; an uncooperative, sedated Sherlock was more than enough for any man to handle. With their combined strength, however, getting Sherlock to the waiting van was quick and easy, and by 15:50, after being so kind as to shut the door to 221, the van was speeding away. Four minutes was all it took. _Four bloody minutes._

Ten minutes later, Mrs. Hudson left Speedy’s and entered 221, just as she said she had, none too pleased about the state of the floor. She’d missed Sherlock’s abduction entirely, and likely thought the squealing getaway was just an idiotic kid speeding down Baker Street. She had absolutely no idea what had happened. And had she not stopped to visit with Chatterjee…

John didn’t want to consider it. He told himself that Mrs. Hudson had been in the right place at the right time for her sake. She’d escaped injury, or worse, and that was just as important as finding Sherlock and Eurus.

John went through the footage MI6 had provided them with – all of it from Baker Street to…

“Stansted?”

“What was that, John?” Lestrade asked.

John hadn’t realised he’d spoken the airport aloud until he heard Lestrade’s voice beside him. “Stansted. The assholes who took Sherlock. MI6 tracked the van to Stansted. Private terminal.”

“Any sign of Sherlock?” Mycroft was suddenly standing in the aisle.

John watched the footage carefully. A tall figure with a familiar mop of dark hair got out of the van. John pointed to the screen. “There. That’s him.” Sherlock was just visible over the roof of the van.

The abductors stood on either side of him, and escorted him into the terminal, and out onto the tarmac to a plane just out of camera range.

_Those sons of bitches!_

John searched for more footage. There wasn’t any. There were no more files.

John’s stomach dropped. The last piece of evidence they had of Sherlock’s abduction was of him being taken to a private jet out of camera range.

“That’s it?” Mycroft asked. “That’s _all they have_?”

“Looks like it.” John swallowed, as though that simple action would be enough to keep his fear and anger from bubbling. “And they had to have known where the cameras were to park a plane outside of them.”

“Or they, conveniently, adjusted their positions so the plane wouldn’t be seen,” Mycroft said. He looked over at Lestrade. “I’ll arrange for a warrant. When we land—”

“Call Stansted and…”

Lestrade’s voice faded from John’s comprehension as he looked over the last piece of surveillance footage again.

Three people were involved; two to physically handle Sherlock, and one behind the wheel of the van. There was no visual on the driver in any of the footage, so much as John could tell. But the two who attacked Sherlock… Maybe something stood out about them.

They were both around Sherlock’s height, dressed all in black – because of course they were – and knew what they were doing. They sprang the moment Sherlock opened the door. Despite Sherlock’s attempt to fight back, a quick fist to the bridge of his nose from one assailant and a hard stab to his neck with the needle from the other had Sherlock down for the count. No wonder there’d been blood on the needle…

John played it back a third time. _What would Sherlock see? What would he look for? What would he **observe**?_ All John saw was, two men kidnapping the man he loved. And it angered him.

Heat and pressure built up behind John’s eyes as he tried to keep his anger from manifesting further than the pit it was creating in his gut. He clenched his fist. What good was he to Mycroft and Lestrade if he couldn’t find anything useful in the footage? What good was he to Sherlock? None. He was useless.

The pit grew, and John’s anger began to rise. He swallowed it down and abruptly stood, practically shoving the computer into Lestrade’s lap as he rushed past him.

Lestrade looked at him in near offended shock. “What the hell?”

John barely acknowledged him. “Sorry.”

He brushed past Mycroft, and walked briskly to the loo, holding his breath in an effort to keep his anger under wraps. He closed the door behind him and stared at himself in the mirror. The harsh reflection of a tired, scared man looked back at him. The gray metal of the loo lent a pallor to his skin and the lights cast shadows under his eyes. It reminded him of the first time he looked in the mirror after being shot in Afghanistan – pale from blood loss and fatigue, a look the harsh fluorescents and the strange shadows they cast did not help.

The pressure and heat behind his eyes grew and he turned his eyes skyward in an effort to keep the floodgates closed. One stubborn tear managed to squeeze through.

John hastily wiped it away and then turned to the sink. He turned the water on and cupped his hands beneath it. He knew that airplane water was not the most sanitary in the world, but he splashed his face with it anyway. The cleanliness of the plane’s water tanks was the last thing he was worried about.

He straightened up and looked at himself again. The reflection in the mirror hadn’t changed. The tired, scared man was still looking back at him. Only now, his face was wet.

He dried his face with the sleeve of his jumper, and took in a long breath. He had to go back to his seat and look over the footage from the abduction and from Stansted again. There had to be something, anything, that would point them in the right direction to identifying these bastards. Their clothing, their shoes, their movements, jewellery... _Anything!_ He had to scrutinise every second of the footage. He had to think like Sherlock.

 _Oh, John, why bother thinking like Sherlock?_ His brain chastised. _Only **Sherlock** can think like Sherlock._

John cursed. He was right. Only Sherlock could think like Sherlock. And John was not—

“ _Don’t be so hard on yourself._ ” Sherlock’s voice drifted in. “ _You know I value your little contributions._ ”

John thought he saw a familiar curly-haired figure in the corner of his eye, but when he turned his head, all he saw was the wall of the loo. He was alone. He ran his hand over his face, and exhaled sharply.

“You really have lost it, haven’t you, Watson?” he whispered.

“ _True that, but you have your uses._ ” There was Sherlock’s voice again, just barely within ear shot. And yet, somehow, it felt like Sherlock was standing just behind his shoulder. “ _You know what I do. Off you go._ ”

John took in a slow breath, steeling himself to open the door and return to his seat.

“ _Soldiers._ ” The word was inches from John’s right ear; so close he thought he felt Sherlock’s breath. But the word made John stand straighter, made him hold his head a bit higher.

He looked at himself in the mirror again. “Soldiers,” he repeated. And with a sharp nod, he left the loo, returning to his seat with purpose.

Mycroft watched him cautiously from the seat across the aisle. “Are you feeling better, John?”

John nodded. “Yes, I think so. I hope so.”

He looked over at Lestrade and paused. The detective’s shocked face repeated in his mind’s eye. “I’m sorry about...” _Practically throwing the laptop at you? My frustration? My..._ “That,” was all that came to him.

An understanding smile was Lestrade’s response. “Don’t worry about it.” He motioned to the laptop screen. The video was paused in a different place than John had left it. “I haven’t had much luck with it either. Maybe I’m just tired.”

“Mind if I have another go?” John asked.

Lestrade handed the laptop back. “Please.”

John nodded his thanks, and set the computer on his lap again. He took a breath and tried again.

Kidnapper number one rang the doorbell. And then looked down the street. In the direction of the camera.

“There!” John exclaimed. _Why didn’t I see this before? God, I’m an idiot._

Lestrade startled and leaned over. “What is it?”

John played the video back and paused it when kidnapper looked in the direction of the camera. “There.”

“What have you found, John?” Mycroft stood up.

John zoomed in on the kidnapper’s face, and turned the laptop toward Mycroft.

Mycroft’s eyes widened in what John thought was relieved gratitude. “Screencap it and send it to Anthea. She’ll have the team run it through facial recognition.”

John didn’t have to be told twice. He took the screencap, and saved it under a name he’d easily recognise: _SHERLOCK ABDUCTOR NO1.JPG_ Then, he pulled up the footage from Stansted, hoping to have similar luck.

He didn’t. The Stansted footage only gave them a profile view of the face they already had. John screencapped it anyway.

_SHERLOCK ABDUCTOR NO1 VER2.JPG_

John opened up his email, and sent the images to Anthea, praying the WI-FI would hold out this high above the ground. It did, though the transmission took longer than normal.

“When we find out who it is,” Mycroft spoke, “we’ll likely find several charges of assault on his rap-sheet. He seems to like violence.”

“And he knows what to do with it,” John agreed. That moment of the abduction played back in his mind, and the pit returned to his stomach. He mentally apologised to everyone for what he was about to suggest. “That hit may have broken Sherlock’s nose.” The pit turned grew angry again. “They won’t be able to eat, smell, hear, or sit for a year when I’m through with them.”

He closed the laptop and put it into the mesh net in the back of the seat in front of him. He couldn’t look at the footage any longer without it feeding his anger. He couldn’t give his anger any more fuel than it already had. Everyone needed his head to be as sharp and clear as possible. Especially Sherlock.

He turned his attention out the window. And saw nothing. The moon hadn’t risen yet, so there were no glistening ocean waves. There were no lights of passing ships. But there were stars above them. Countless numbers of them, bright and beautiful. Could Sherlock see them too? Oh, how John hoped so.

After a moment, he turned away from the window. As beautiful as they were, they didn’t change the fact that there was a _bsolutely nothing_ out there. Just three men and a pilot somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean.


	7. Chapter 7

The Earth’s surface was closer than Mycroft expected when the plane broke through the cloud ceiling and the city of Toronto came into view. The clouds were low and obscured the tops of most of the buildings; the upper half of the CN Tower was completely hidden. The city was in darkness, save for the lights in the windows of downtown high-rise offices and condos. The streetlights gave a yellowish hue to the snow that was falling and had been for some time. Grids of white designated the streets that weren’t well travelled or hadn’t yet seen a snow plough. But the snow had the potential to be a good thing. With any luck, it would keep most of the city’s inhabitants at home and traffic would be light. Why anyone would be out at this hour without a good reason was beyond Mycroft. 

Below, Lake Ontario presented itself the same way the Atlantic Ocean had; as a void of ethereal nothingness. Toronto Harbour separated the city from the airport they were heading to. And the plane was descending right over it.

It wasn’t the first time Mycroft had taken off or landed at an airport near a body of water. He’d been in and out of London City many times; however the Thames was not nearly as wide as the Toronto harbour. Mycroft knew the pilot would land safely at the airport, but he braced himself anyway until he felt the familiar bump of touch down. The amount of pressure the pilot applied to the brakes was a bit alarming, and Mycroft was grateful when the plane came to a complete stop. He straightened and released the tension in his legs; he’d planted his feet firmly on the floor in an unconscious – and rather futile – effort to help stop the plane from careening off the other end of the runway.

Across the aisle, John was cracking the tension out of his neck and removing his hands from the end of the armrests. Mycroft was secretly relieved that he wasn’t the only one perturbed by the landing.

Beside John, Lestrade didn’t seem bothered at all by the shortness of the runway. Mycroft thought him a bit off his rocker until he remembered that Lestrade was partial to vacations on small, tropical islands. No doubt most of those places had airports this size or smaller.

The plane taxied to the last gate at the east end of the terminal. Mycroft stood, retrieved his coat from the seat he’d started the flight in, and was at the door before the pilot opened it.

Mycroft was first out of the plane and into the terminal. The terminal was empty save for one gate agent, a customs officer, an airport security manager, a custodian, and a woman in a grey pea coat who matched the photo Mycroft had of Katherine Matlock. A cardboard tray with four dark red coffee cups was in her hands.

The customs officer and security manager were first to approach. The customs officer was satisfied once IDs were shown, but the security manager was less than thrilled, and looked exhausted to boot. The name Simon was on his employee ID tag.

“Do you know how many phone calls from irate residents I’ve had since you flew in?” he asked. “We have a strict noise curfew after 11pm unless it’s an air ambulance.”

“I don’t particularly care,” Mycroft answered. And he didn’t. “And certainly MI6 is exempt from that curfew, or we wouldn’t be there.”

“It is,” Simon answered. “But—”

“Well, then lucky for you, we’re with MI6,” John snipped. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have a fugitive to catch and the world’s only consulting detective to find.”

Mycroft gave Simon a pointed look. A look Simon heeded. He nodded, and motioned for the three men to pass through.

They did, and Mycroft approached the woman with the coffees. “Ms. Matlock, I presume?”

She nodded. “Mr. Holmes, I presume.”

“Well, I’m glad we’ve presumed correctly,” Mycroft sighed, fighting sarcasm with every word.

“I don’t know how you gentlemen take your coffees, so I just ordered three blacks,” Katherine said. “Figured you could use the caffeine.”

“Black is perfect for me,” John answered. “Thank you.”

Katherine handed him one of the three unopened cups.

Mycroft introduced everyone. “Lestrade and I can adjust our coffees once we get to police headquarters. So, if you wouldn’t mind?”

Katherine nodded. “Of course. Follow me.”

She led them through the terminal and down an escalator to a pedestrian tunnel with two pairs of moving sidewalks, which, Mycroft assumed, ran beneath the narrow channel that separated the airport from the city’s mainland. The security manager followed. Sure enough, an ascending escalator brought them to the entrance to the airport. Outside, a ten year old Ford Focus hatchback sat at the kerb. It was in dreadful need of a wash.

Mycroft swallowed down a feeling of contempt. He supposed it could have been worse. They could have been walking. 

Katherine unlocked the car with the fob, and Mycroft got in the front passenger seat, thankful to be leaving the airport security manager outside. To his surprise, the interior did not match the exterior. The interior of the car was clean, save for a few spots of dust on the dash and radio screen. The floor mats were in good condition, though this winter was taking its toll on them judging by the build-up of salt residue. The grey cloth seats, front and back, had been reupholstered within the last six months and kept free of food and beverage stains. When Katherine started the car, the soft scent of an ocean breeze filled the cabin.

“Are you gentlemen okay back there?” Katherine turned around awkwardly in her seat to face Lestrade and John. “Have enough leg room?”

“We’re fine,” Lestrade answered.

“Okay.” And with that, Katherine put the car in gear, and pulled away from the kerb.

Mycroft watched the city go by the window as they drove. Snow was piled between the pavement and the road, several feet high in places. A new layer had been added by the snowfall that had just recently turned to rain. The city had received—

“That’s a lot of snow...” John mused from behind Mycroft. “Is this normal?”

Katherine laughed. “No. But, we’ve had a significant dumping every Tuesday or Wednesday, like clockwork, since the middle of January. We’re running out of places to put it.”

Mycroft only half-listened to the rest of the small talk for the duration of the car ride. He was certain John and Lestrade were thankful for the weather discussion, and while Katherine was pleasant, it wasn’t the conversation Mycroft wanted to have at the moment. He’d much rather be discussing their next course of action in finding Paige, Sherlock, and Eurus.

Thankfully, ten minutes later, Katherine was driving down a narrow back street and into an underground car park next to a large, oddly shaped, granite building. She parked, and the foursome made their way through the car park and into the granite building, which turned out to be Toronto Police Headquarters.

It was clear they had entered through a back door, but the lobby was large and bright, and signs marked where they needed to go.

They were nearing the front desk when Mycroft realised he’d left his coffee in the car. He cursed silently.

Lestrade approached the officer at the front desk and showed her his ID.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, New Scotland Yard,” he said. “This is Mycroft Holmes, MI6; and Dr. John Watson. We’re running a joint investigation with Staff Detective Inspector Delacruz.”

“Oh yes; he said you were coming. Just a moment.” She picked up the phone and dialled an extension. “Detective Inspector Lestrade just arrived.” She hung up a moment later. “He’ll be out shortly.”

As stated, a few minutes later, a Filipino man around John’s height entered the lobby. He extended his hand to the group as Lestrade introduced everyone. “Staff Detective Inspector Wyatt Delacruz.” He stopped at Katherine. “I’m afraid I can’t let—”

“Oh, she’s with us, sir,” Lestrade said. “Mr. Holmes has given her direct permission to help.”

Mycroft nodded. “It’s true. I have personally given her permission to aid us in this investigation. She spoke with Paige Moriarty this morning booking a transport reservation from Pearson to an address in Oshawa. She was granted permission by Durham Region authorities, New Scotland Yard, and me to give us the information we need. I admit she’s privy to far more information in this case than any civilian ought to be. She also, as a by-product of her occupation, has fairly decent knowledge of air travel, knowledge valuable to the primary goal of our investigation; finding Sherlock Holmes.”

While Mycroft had been speaking, Katherine had produced the statement that had been faxed to her that morning. Delacruz took it, looked it over, and handed it back.

Delacruz looked over the group with a scrutinising look. After a moment, he relented. “All right. But she’s your responsibility, Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft barely hid a cringe. _Wonderful. Now I have to babysit._ “Of course.”

“Follow me.” Delacruz headed for the door he’d entered from.

Katherine looked at Mycroft. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Don’t make me regret this,” Mycroft answered.

“I’ll do my best.”

Mycroft nodded. That was all he could ask of her.

Once through the door, they were led through a police bullpen, and into an empty board room. Inside, a dark haired detective was sitting in one of the chairs. He stood when they entered the room.

Delacruz motioned to him. “Detective Sergeant Denver Grey.” Introductions went around for a third time.

Mycroft wasted no time in telling Delacruz and Grey everything that had transpired up to this point: Paige Moriarty leaving England, Sherlock’s abduction, and Eurus’s disappearance.

While he explained everything, Katherine produced two folded sheets of paper; one blue and one yellow. The blue paper had the details for Paige – under the name Paula Moranis – the address she was being picked up from, the closest major intersection to the address, and telephone number. Below that was the flight information for her departure on Friday. The yellow paper had the same kind of information, but for Eurus, and began with the flight details for her arrival into Toronto from Phoenix, and ended with the address she was being taken to. The information was printed on each end of the paper, essentially providing two hard copies of each reservation.

Creasing the folds as best she could, Katherine opened the papers out on the table, and tore them down the seams. She handed one side to Delacruz, and the other to Lestrade.

“I’ll send Durham Regional Police to her address,” Delacruz said. “Let’s see if she’s home.” He left the room.

“And I need to borrow a phone,” Lestrade spoke. “Hope you’ve got a good long distance plan.”

“It’s pretty good,” Grey answered.

“Good enough to call England?”

Grey smirked. “Oh, I don’t know; that might cost you.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, hiding it from nobody. _I don’t care how much it’s going to cost!_

Grey cleared his throat and motioned to the conference phone at the end of the table. “You can use that one if you’d like.”

“Thank you.” Lestrade moved over to the phone, pulled out his notepad, and dialled.

Hollow ringing came from the phone’s speaker; once, twice, three times.

Then finally, “Stansted Airport Security.” 

Lestrade wasted no time in introducing himself and directing Stansted security to the warrant issued by MI6.

“What do you need, Detective Inspector?”

“Sherlock Holmes got on a private plane at approximately 18:00 tonight,” Lestrade answered. “We need to know where that plane was headed, and who was flying it.”

Mycroft tapped his toes as the call dissolved into clicking mice, typing keyboards, and rustling papers.

“Here it is; a plane with the registration number Golf Echo Mike Juliet November left Stansted at 18:15, London time, heading for Toronto Pearson.”

Mycroft’s heart skipped. Sherlock had been brought to Toronto? Was he being held here, or had he been sent elsewhere? _Where was he?!_

Mycroft practically shoved Lestrade away from the conference phone. “What time did G-EMJN land in Toronto? Did it continue on elsewhere?”

“I’m afraid you’d have to contact Pearson Airport to find that out, sir. We can really only track flights while they’re on our radar.”

Mycroft cursed. “What _can_ you tell me?!”

“It would have landed at around 2100 hours, give or take,” Katherine answered. “It’s about a seven hour, forty-five minute flight from the UK to Toronto barring any delays.”

“Who was the pilot?” Lestrade asked.

“Captain Carrie Akster, sir.”

Lestrade jotted the information down. “Thank you.”

The call ended, and Detective Grey headed for the door.

“I’ll get on the phone with Pearson and have them send all the information they have.” And he left.

Mycroft pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialled Anthea’s number. It sounded like he’d woken her when she answered.

“Yes, Mycroft?”

“Anthea, I need you to obtain another warrant,” Mycroft said, and gave her the details.

Anthea responded right away. “It will be sent shortly.”

“Thank you.”

Anthea hung up, and Mycroft relayed the information to Lestrade.

Lestrade nodded. “When the warrant comes in, I’ll find Captain Akster’s credit card information and see if she’s used it in the last three hours.”

“She probably has,” Katherine said. “Pilots are required, by law, to have at least eight hours downtime between flights. If you’re looking for hotels, the Sheraton Gateway is a good bet; it’s literally attached to Terminal Three.”

Lestrade gave her a smile. “Thank you.” And he exited the room.

Mycroft collapsed into the nearest chair, and looked at the two people left in the room. Hope and fear fought for dominance inside him. Sherlock had been in this city, and there was a chance he was still here. Yet, there was also a good chance he’d been moved elsewhere. Three hours had passed since Sherlock had landed. He could be anywhere.

 

~~~***~~~ 

 

Mycroft checked his watch. Fifteen minutes had passed since Lestrade, Grey, and Delacruz had gone to seek out what they needed. That was fifteen minutes too long. They needed to find everyone and find them _now_. Mycroft knew the statistics of missing people. Seventy-two was the magical number of hours they had to find a missing person alive; thirteen of those hours had already been wasted in investigation and travel. Thirteen hours too many. They had to speed things up. Lives depended on it, dammit!

“Katherine,” John’s voice pulled Mycroft out of his reverie. “It’s been about three hours since Sherlock should have landed in Toronto. If they’ve continued on elsewhere, how far could they have gone by now?”

“Driving or flying?” Katherine asked.

“Uh,” John stammered. “Either or?”

“If they’re driving, with the weather...” Katherine said. Mycroft could practically hear the wheels spinning in her head. “Niagara Falls, or maybe Buffalo if they’re going south; London, Ontario, if they’re headed west – not nearly as exciting as the real London, by the way; maybe Belleville if going east, and... Gravenhurst if they’re going north. And that’s assuming there are no road closures due to accidents.”

Other than Niagara Falls, Mycroft had absolutely no idea where any of those places were.

“And flying?” John asked.

The sigh Katherine emitted fuelled the fear in Mycroft’s gut. “Uh, anywhere between here and Newfoundland or Saskatchewan if they’re still in Canada... anywhere between here and Miami, Tampa, New Orleans, Houston... Hell, depending on how quick the layover was, Cuba is only about a three hour flight.”

Mycroft wanted to tell her to shut up. He didn’t need another reminder that there was a whole lot of world between him and wherever Sherlock might be. However, she had answered John’s question honestly, and without searching for the information. She had it all in her head. They just had to wait for more information to confirm it all.

Two sets of hurried footsteps signalled the arrival of Lestrade and Grey.

“Well, Katherine was right about the pilot’s down time.” Lestrade spoke first.

“I’m sensing a ‘but’,” Katherine said. So was Mycroft. “Carrie Akster checked into the Holiday Inn at 30 Carlton St, at 10:35 tonight,” Lestrade answered. “I looked up the address and—”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Katherine cut in. “That Holiday Inn is just down the street, maybe all of a five minute walk from here. Why would she check in there?”

Grey straightened up and handed a transcript to Mycroft. “Because G-EMJN was diverted from Toronto Pearson to Toronto City Centre.”

“Toronto City Centre?” Mycroft repeated. “Isn’t that the—”

“– airport you flew into?” Katherine cut in. “Yes.”

“ _Fuck_!” John cried. “We were _just there!_ ”

Mycroft’s legs grew momentarily weak, and it took all of his reserve to remain standing. They had missed Sherlock by less than three hours. _Three stupid hours!_ He took a moment to compose himself, and then took a breath. “Why was it diverted?”

“We’ll have to ask Captain Akster when we bring her in,” Grey answered. He turned to Lestrade. “If you’d like to come with me?”

Lestrade smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”

Mycroft didn’t bother acknowledging the departing officers. Acknowledging their departure required too much energy; energy best used elsewhere. Like keeping himself level-headed. He would be of no use to anyone if he allowed himself to get angry, especially to Sherlock and Eurus.

But, he did acknowledge the purposeful footfalls entering the room.

“So, I’ve got some good news and some bad news.” Delacruz said. “Durham Regional went to the address Katherine provided us. Paige Moriarty must have been tipped off because she managed to get away shortly before officers arrived.”

Mycroft’s hands balled into fists. “Wonderful.”

“But,” Delacruz continued, “they have two men in custody, Hank Kelly and Calvin Steinsky, for aiding and abetting.” 

“Do they know where she may be heading?” John asked.

“No,” Delacruz answered. “We will, however, know if she uses her credit card for anything.”

“And if she uses cash?” Mycroft asked.

Delacruz frowned, and Mycroft bit back a curse.

“Unless she hit a foreign exchange or the men who abetted her gave her cash, she might not be able to,” Katherine said. “The Pound isn’t exactly a currency we take unless it’s a five pence piece or something like that. The only foreign currency we really accept is American Dollars. And even that isn’t accepted everywhere. She might not have a choice but to use her credit card, even to grab cash from an ATM.”

“So, there’s only a fifty percent chance of catching her,” Mycroft muttered.

“I’ll take those odds,” Katherine said. “Better than no odds at all.”

“But we’re still no closer to finding Sherlock,” John spoke, his voice taut. “All we know is that he arrived at the same airport we did with a matter of two and a half hours between us!”

“John’s right,” Mycroft added. “Sherlock could be anywhere in a three _thousand_ kilometre radius, and we still don’t _actually know where my sister is!_ ”

“How big of a transfer hub is Phoenix?” John asked.

“It’s not nearly as big as Atlanta or LAX, but it’s a hub for US Airways, I think,” Katherine answered.

“Where could she have transferred to from there?” Mycroft asked.

“Uh…” Katherine looked like she didn’t know the answer. 

Mycroft’s stomach dropped. He couldn’t expect her to know everything.

“Vegas,” she said, “Reno, Salt Lake City, some of the smaller cities in California, Mexico—”

Mycroft stopped her with a sharp wave of his hand. He’d heard enough. He didn’t need a list of all the possible places Eurus could be. He regretted asking the question. “So, we don’t know any more than we did eight hours ago.”

“That’s not true,” Katherine said. “We know Paige Moriarty’s somewhere in Oshawa.”

“ _Somewhere_ in Oshawa,” John muttered in exasperation.

“Oshawa’s not that big,” Katherine said. Her expression softened. “Why don’t we take a break – ten, fifteen minutes – get another coffee, regroup, and come back.”

Mycroft shook his head. “A break will just waste time. Time Sherlock may not have.”

“No,” Delacruz said. “Go, take a break, clear your head. You’re no good to your siblings if you can’t think straight.”

Mycroft deflated, and eventually relented. He knew Delacruz was right. He was no good to anyone without a clear mind.

“I’ll go put on a pot of coffee,” Katherine offered.

Mycroft and John told her how they liked their coffees, and she went on her way. Then, Mycroft grabbed his coat, and made a beeline for the street. Once outside and away from the door, he lit up a cigarette.

The rain was cold, and Mycroft immediately regretted leaving his umbrella inside. Like the other city streets, snow was piled in sections, much of it black from dirt and car exhaust. Despite the layer of dirt, he found it rather pretty. If only he could actually enjoy it.

He took a long drag of his cigarette. The rush of nicotine awakened his mind, even as the tar polluted his lungs. But with the awakened mind came reruns of everything that had happened thus far. The more he went through it all, the more frustrated he became. He’d spent eight hours in a plane crossing the Atlantic and he was still no further ahead than he had been before he left Heathrow. Paige was still free, and his siblings were still missing. And standing out in the cold smoking a cigarette wasn’t going to find them.

He stomped out his cigarette and turned to go back inside, but his way was blocked by Katherine, holding two steaming mugs of coffee.

Concern crossed her face. “Is everything all right? You look like you could use a—”

“A chat?” Mycroft rolled his eyes. His breath curled in the air in front of him.

“Sometimes it helps.” Katherine handed one of the mugs to him. “I think this one’s yours.”

Mycroft nodded and took his coffee. He raised it to his lips.

“Watch; it might be—”

He took a sip. The liquid burned his tongue, and he recoiled.

“Hot.”

Mycroft smiled despite himself. _Well, of course it’s hot, Mycroft; it’s fresh coffee!_ “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

An awkward silence fell between them. They both wanted to speak, but neither one wanted to bother the other. It wasn’t that he wanted her company, but being alone with his thoughts wasn’t always best for him. It was one of the ways he and Sherlock were a lot alike. Their minds, though brilliant, could be very dangerous at times.

Eventually, Katherine gave him a small smile, and then turned to leave.

“I’m not a very good brother.” The words were out of Mycroft’s mouth before he could stop them.

Katherine turned around. “I wouldn’t say that. You’ve just flown across the Atlantic looking for your siblings. It’s more than what mine would do for me.” When her eyebrows furrowed, Mycroft knew she had questions. He had involved her in his search for Sherlock and Eurus; of course she’d have questions.

“Are the three of you close?” she asked.

There it was. But he had to be careful with how much he told her. Some secrets had to stay that way.

“Sherlock and I were close growing up,” Mycroft answered. “Now, we… We get along.”

Understanding was thick on Katherine’s face. She knew the dynamic well. “What about Eurus?”

Mycroft chose his words carefully. “We’re rebuilding, the three of us.”

Without going into too much detail, he told her a bit about Eurus’s past and committal to Sherrinford. And Katherine listened without judgement, for which Mycroft was grateful. No wonder Sherlock liked having someone else around.

“You know,” he continued, “she once thwarted a terrorist plot after spending an hour on Twitter.”

Katherine’s eyes widened, impressed. “Really? Wow.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes.” He sucked in a breath. “What I can’t figure out is, why Phoenix? Of all the places she could go, why there?”

“Maybe she threw a dart at a map and that’s where it stuck?” Katherine asked. “Or, a Nerf gun if she’s not allowed sharp objects.” There was a lightness behind her words, telling him there was no real merit to her suggestion. It was a silly guess at which Mycroft found himself smiling ever so slightly.

“But,” Katherine continued, “given what little I know of the UK climate, I can’t blame her for seeking out somewhere sunny and dry. Phoenix certainly is that.”

Mycroft couldn’t either. But why _Phoenix_? “She could have chosen any number of places in Europe…” He sighed, cutting himself off. “Of course, if she’s even still in Phoenix.”

“You’ll find her, Mycroft.” Katherine reached out and set her hand on Mycroft’s shoulder.

Mycroft didn’t move, though he appreciated her comfort, and was a bit sad when she withdrew. But only for a moment. A pensive look had come over Katherine’s face. What was she thinking now?

“Eurus was at Sherrinford because there were concerns for her safety, yes?”

Mycroft nodded. “That’s right.”

“That suggests that she shouldn’t be left alone,” Katherine said. “Maybe someone travelled with her.”

“Someone did,” Mycroft answered. “Paige Moriarty. As far as Toronto, anyway.”

“But Paige is now in Oshawa,” Katherine said. “Maybe someone met Eurus in Toronto? Or maybe in Phoenix?”

Mycroft considered it. “That’s possible. One of the staff at Sherrinford was in on Eurus’s escape, and authorities haven’t been able to find him.” He took a tentative sip of his coffee. It still hadn’t cooled enough to drink. “How many ways could one get from London to Phoenix?”

“Uh, depends on the airline and what airport one left out of,” Katherine answered, “but one could connect through JFK, Atlanta, Chicago…”

“Is there a direct flight from London to Phoenix?”

“Let’s find out.” Katherine pulled her phone out of her coat pocket, and thumbed at it. She momentarily frowned, and tried again. Then she smiled. “Not from Gatwick, but there is one from Heathrow. British Air flight 1526, operated by American Airlines 195.” She handed her phone to Mycroft to look for himself. “Took off from Heathrow at 9:30 this morning, London time, and landed Sky Harbor at 12:45 this afternoon, Phoenix time.”

Mycroft couldn’t help the smile that spread onto his face. “Let’s see if we can get a hold of a passenger manifest.” He hurried back inside to the bullpen.

Katherine followed him. “What name are we looking for?”

“Frank Kurth.”

Delacruz poked his head out of the board room. “What?”

Mycroft handed Katherine’s phone to the detective. “We need a passenger manifest for this flight; we’re looking for the name, Frank Kurth.” Then he pulled out his phone and tapped a text to Anthea.

_I need another warrant. Plane manifests. Looking for Frank Kurth. Thank you._

“That’s if he was on that flight,” Katherine reminded. “He may have ended up on a connecting flight through any of the other cities.” She held her hand out. “If I can have my phone back, or borrow a computer, I can find those flight numbers.”

John retrieved his laptop from his bag and set it on the table. “What am I looking for?” He turned it on and looked between Mycroft and Katherine expectantly.

“Flights from Heathrow and Gatwick to Phoenix Sky Harbor,” Katherine answered. 

“The flight Delacruz is looking at is a direct flight from Heathrow to Phoenix,” Mycroft added.

John nodded, and typed in the information. He paused and swallowed. “Oh boy. Lots.”

Mycroft cursed silently. Yet another needle in a haystack.

Delacruz set Katherine’s phone in her hand and started toward the door. “I’ll put someone on finding out what airport this Frank Kurth left out of.”

Mycroft watched Delacruz speed walk out of the area. If anything, this detective did not waste any time, and for that, Mycroft was grateful. The faster the authorities could move, the faster they’d locate his siblings, and the sooner they could return to London.


	8. Chapter 8

John stared at his laptop screen. There were ninety-four possible ways Kurth could have flown to Phoenix; forty-one from Heathrow, fifty-three from Gatwick. Ninety-four possible routes.

But John knew there were only so many airlines, and the number of routes got smaller once one reached the continental United States. Taking a closer look, he realised it got much smaller. At least the number of available airlines did. American, Delta, and United were the big three.

John found the phone numbers for the airlines, jotted them down, and hurried to find Delacruz, ignoring Mycroft’s confused stare. He found Delacruz giving a junior detective the task of running Kurth’s name.

“If Kurth got on a connecting flight in the US, these are the airlines he probably used.” John tore the page from his notepad, and handed it over.

The junior detective thanked him, and immediately picked up her phone.

John turned to return to the board room, but movement from the other end of the bullpen drew his attention. Lestrade and Grey had returned and heading straight for Delacruz.

“We’ve got Captain Akster,” Grey said. “She’s in interrogation room six.”

“Is there a viewing room?” John asked. There was no way he was missing this interrogation.

Delacruz nodded, and invited him to come along. “Might want to bring Mr. Holmes and your laptop with you.”

John didn’t have to be told twice. He poked his head into the boardroom and summoned Mycroft, asking him to bring the laptop with him. Mycroft answered right away; it was one of the few times John had seen him move this fast.

John and Mycroft followed Delacruz through the building and to the interrogation room. Lestrade was standing at the door when they arrived. Lestrade took John’s laptop, and then entered the interrogation room with Delacruz. John and Mycroft went into the viewing room and John positioned himself close to the two-way mirror.

Captain Akster, a black woman of average height and build sat at the table, sat at the table, facing the glass. She shifted uncomfortably in the chair, wringing her hands on her lap. Her eyes were heavy, yet wandered the room nervously, waiting for something, anything, to happen. Her hair, short and kinky, hadn’t seen a brush since her sleep was interrupted. John had a feeling she nothing more than a pawn in this operation; merely a means to an end.

Delacruz introduced himself and Lestrade, and then got right to business.

“You took off from Stansted at nine o’clock tonight, flying plane G-EMJN,” Delacruz stated.

Captain Akster nodded. “I did. But I don’t see how that’s a reason for all of this.”

Lestrade brought the Stansted footage up onto the laptop and then turned it so Akster could see the screen. “Those three men were on board. The one with the curly hair is Sherlock Holmes; he was abducted.”

Akster’s eyes widened. “What? Abducted?”

Lestrade turned the laptop back to him, and found the surveillance footage from Baker Street. He clicked Play, and returned it to Akster.

John crossed his arms tightly in front of himself, preparing for any number of possible reactions. She paled and recoiled.

With an utterance of, “Oh my god,” John knew where she was in the footage, and he willed Lestrade to close the laptop. Eventually, Lestrade did.

Akster shook her head in disbelief. “I didn’t know that was happening. I was hired to fly a private plane with four passengers from London Stansted to Toronto Pearson. So, I did. I didn’t know it was part of an abduction…” She trailed off and took in several deep breaths. “If I had known—”

The detectives’ postures slacked, signs to John that they both believed her. John believed her too.

Delacruz leaned forward and folded his hands on the table in front of him. “Captain Akster, you said you were to fly into Toronto Pearson, but G-EMJN was diverted to City Centre. Why?”

“The gentlemen on the plane insisted,” Akster answered. “I told them diverting a flight, private or no, was not easy, but they refused to listen. They threatened me. So, I obliged. I got clearance from Toronto City Centre, and we landed there.”

“She didn’t think the diversion and being threatened was fishy?” Mycroft muttered. “Oh, come on.”

“She was just doing her job,” John said. “Following orders.”

“The men on the plane,” Lestrade spoke, “did you happen to get their names?”

“Uh, only first names, sir,” Akster answered. “Alistair, Chase, and Ivar.”

“And the person who hired you?” Delacruz asked.

“Moranis,” Akster replied, “Paula Moranis.”

John balled his hands. His guts tangled themselves into knots so tight, they hurt. His eyes searched the room for something,  _ anything _ , to release his anger upon. All he found was Mycroft, and he couldn’t very well hit the man who could, potentially, be his brother-in-law at some point in the future. Even if Sherlock would likely be amused to hear of it.

He took in a slow breath and squeezed his fists tighter. He squeezed until his nails dug into his skin and his knuckles hurt.

“Paige orchestrated this entire thing,” he whispered.

“And all we know is that she is  _ somewhere _ in Oshawa,” Mycroft added.

“That’s not helping,” John answered.

Mycroft turned his gaze to the floor. “I know. But we know Sherlock is here.”

“Do we?” John snipped.

“Well, we know he was—”

“All we know is that Captain Akster was ordered to divert her flight to land at the same airport we did. Sherlock could be  _ anywhere _ between here and any of those other places Katherine listed earlier. And even if he is here, Toronto is a fucking big city!”

John paced the room. God, Mycroft could be an idiot! Had he not been paying attention to the list of places Katherine gave them for possible locations? Sherlock could have been in fucking  _ Cuba _ by now! And here they were, watching a pilot – who was really nothing more than a pawn – be questioned by police. This wasn’t getting them anywhere.

A rap at the door stopped John mid-step. Detective Grey stuck his head inside the room. “Couple of things you should see.”

“Please make them good things,” Mycroft said.

“Well, they’re leads,” Grey answered.

“We’ll take them.” John crossed the room, following Grey out the door. And nearly careened into Lestrade in the hall.

“Well, her story corroborates with what Pearson told us,” Lestrade said.

“Yes it does,” Mycroft answered.

“And what’s more,” Grey added, “we found Frank Kurth’s name on a passenger manifest, and Paige’s false credit card was just used to make a purchase.”

John shared a hopeful glance with Mycroft and then followed the detective through the station to the bullpen. Katherine was sitting at the computer they’d used earlier to watch the surveillance footage.

“What flight was he on?” Mycroft asked.

“The one Katherine found,” Grey answered. “American Airlines 195.”

“He flew directly from Heathrow to Phoenix,” Katherine added. “But get this; Frank arrived at 12:45, Terminal 4, gate B25. Eurus, aboard Air Canada 1837, arrived at 13:42, Terminal 4, gate B24.”

“It appears you were right, Katherine,” Mycroft said. “Kurth did meet Eurus in Phoenix.”

“Only had to wait an hour for her, apparently,” John added. “And what about Paige’s credit card?”

“It was used about fifteen minutes ago to purchase a train ticket to Montreal,” Grey answered.

“Montreal?” John repeated. “Why Mon—”

“Of course,” Katherine mused.

John was confused. “What?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if Paige has connections in Montreal,” Katherine said. “It’s kind of run by the mob.”

John blinked. “It’s what?”

“They went through three mayors last year because they all had mob connections,” Katherine answered. “Canada’s not as innocent as people think.”

Lestrade laughed. “Apparently.”

“Do we know what time her train leaves?” Mycroft asked.

“She bought passage on the 7:19am train departing from Oshawa,” Grey said.

“Well, at least we know she’s still in Oshawa,” Lestrade mused.

An awful thought crossed John’s mind. “Maybe. Could she have purchased the passage from Oshawa to throw us off her trail?”

“Is she that smart?” Lestrade asked.

“Jim orchestrated simultaneous break-ins seven years ago,” John said.

“Yes, but we caught him,” Lestrade protested.

“Only because he wanted us to,” Mycroft reminded. “Plus, he had people planted in those break-in locations.”

“Speaking of,” Delacruz said. “Katherine, what time did you say Sherlock should have landed in Toronto?”

“Nine o’clock,” Katherine answered, “barring any weather delays.”

“There was an incident at the Island Airport around 9:30 tonight.”

John stiffened. “What kind of incident?”

“An airport vehicle was stolen,” Delacruz answered. “Tore off of the property through the south gate like a bat out of hell.”

“Please tell me you caught them,” John hoped.

Delacruz frowned. “The vehicle was abandoned on the island. Airport authorities never found the culprits.”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please tell me there is footage of this incident.”

Delacruz nodded. “There is. Follow me.”

John was on the detective’s heels as he led them into his office. The group gathered around the computer, and Delacruz pulled up the footage in question.

A white pickup truck sped across the tarmac. John thought he could make out Sherlock’s mop of hair through the back window.  _ Thought _ . John was well aware there was a lot of reflection in the truck’s windows, and darkness often created shapes of things that weren’t actually there.

But he had to believe it was Sherlock. For his own sake.

As Delacruz stated, the truck tore over the snowy tarmac and through an open gate. Then it disappeared down a narrow road and into the night.

_ An open airport gate? _ That didn’t seem right. “Is that gate normally kept open?”

“It shouldn’t be,” Delacruz said. “And, truthfully, I didn’t think much of it until you brought up someone being planted.”

“Do you think this could be related to Sherlock’s kidnapping?” Katherine asked.

“That’s my thinking,” Delacruz answered.

Lestrade looked at John and Mycroft, a hopeful smile spreading onto his face. “Best lead we’ve had since we arrived.”

John’s heart leapt into his throat. “So, he’s on the island then.”

Katherine cringed.

John’s heart fell. He almost didn’t want to know what she was going to say.

“Not necessarily.” Katherine’s words were slow and careful. “There is a ferry that runs from the island to the mainland. People also live on the island, and most of them have private boats.”

“Oh wonderful,” Mycroft muttered.

“I know it’s not what you wanted to hear,” Katherine apologised.

“No, no,” John said gently. It wasn’t her fault. “We need to be realistic.”

“But it  _ is _ a place to start,” Delacruz said. “Like Katherine said, people do live on the island, and if Paige had help at the airport, she could also have had help from an island resident.”

Lestrade pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his blazer. “Let me get a warrant faxed to Phoenix police for Frank Kurth, and we’ll head back to the island.” He excused himself and left the room.

The group followed Lestrade out, and then returned to the board room.

John leaned his hands on the edge of the table, and took in several long breaths. Lestrade was right; this was the best lead they had since they’d arrived. And despite Katherine’s realistic approach – an approach he appreciated – he knew this was the lead they needed. This was their break. He could  _ feel it _ .

“You said did they located the truck?” Mycroft’s voice came through John’s thoughts.

“They did,” Delacruz answered. “Security followed the tire tracks and found the truck abandoned at Chelsea Beach.”

“Chelsea Beach?” Katherine repeated. She seemed confused. “But there’s nothing there. It’s just a beach.”

“Someone could have met them there,” Grey suggested, “transferred Sherlock to another vehicle.”

Katherine shook her head. “Right, duh.” She looked up embarrassed. “Apparently, I need another coffee.”

John offered her a forgiving smile, and took note of his own empty mug. “So do I.” He picked it up. “There seems to be a hole in my cup.”

Katherine laughed. “Yeah, mine, too.” She motioned toward the door. “Up for a trip to the coffee pot?”

John nodded. Yes, another coffee would suit him just fine.

“Could I ask for one as well?” Delacruz asked. “Regular.”

“Done,” Katherine answered.

“And while you’re doing that, I’ll talk to City Centre Airport security and see what else they can tell us,” Delacruz said.

John nodded, then followed Katherine to the lounge, and waited – rather impatiently – for her to brew a second pot of coffee. The first had been rather good.

He crossed his arms tightly in front of him and perched himself on the edge of one of the tables. He knew what Lestrade and Delacruz had to do would take time, but John’s heart was climbing back into his throat. Sherlock was in that stolen truck, and had been taken somewhere on that island. Stashed in someone’s house? Maybe someone’s boat? Were there warehouses on the island? John couldn’t remember seeing any when they landed, but it had been dark and he knew nothing about the city he’d been flying into.

“We’re close, Katherine,” he spoke after a moment. Katherine turned around from the coffee pot. “I can feel it. I just don’t know what state we’re going to find him in.” He almost didn’t want to speak his thoughts out loud, but maybe talking would help. “My training suggests—”

“Training?” Katherine cut in.

“I was an army doctor,” John answered. “Captain. Afghanistan.”  _ Why am I listing this _ ?  _ Because you’re proud of it, that’s why. _

Gratitude swept across Katherine’s face. “Thank you for your service, Captain.” She paused and a curious smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth. “Doc?”

John couldn’t help but chuckle. “John works just as well.” But his chuckle died quickly as thoughts of Sherlock filtered back into his mind. “My training tells me to expect the worst. He’s been drugged, likely multiple times to keep him manageable… and probably to shut him up.” John sighed. “When Sherlock gets going, sometimes even  _ I _ want to smother him with a pillow and I’m in love with the bastard.”

Katherine gave him a bright, understanding smile. It faded a moment later. “What does your gut tell you, John?”

“My gut?” John repeated.

Katherine nodded. “The little voice we seldom listen to.”

“That he’s alive,” John answered immediately.

“Then that’s what we’re going with,” Katherine said. Her gaze was firm and her voice was steady. “Fuck your training; we’re following your gut. You think he’s still on the island?”

John nodded. “Yes.”

“Then that’s where we’ll start,” Katherine answered.

“How well do you know the island?” John asked.

“Well enough,” Katherine said.

“Where would you look first?”

Katherine thought for a moment. “I’d start with the residences on Ward’s and Algonquin Islands.”

John furrowed his brow. “Islands? I thought—”

Katherine flushed. “Sorry. It’s a Toronto thing. What we call the island, is actually a group of fifteen that aren’t much more than large sandbars. They were actually a peninsula until a series of storms came through in the mid-1800s and separated them…” She cut herself off, looking a bit embarrassed. “Sorry. Anyway, Sherlock.”

John took in a sharp breath. He’d kind of been enjoying the history tidbit. “Right.” He exhaled just as sharply. “God, all I want is to find him, and take him home. And give my daughter a big hug.”

Katherine’s head fell to the side in curiosity. “Daughter? Adopted?”

“No,” John answered.  _ How do I explain this _ ? “I, uh… I was married before... to a woman.”

Katherine nodded understandingly. “Ah. What happened?”

The scene played out in John’s mind’s eye. Mary bleeding from her chest, fighting for breath; Sherlock standing there in shock; Norbury’s still smoking gun…

“She died,” he said softly. “She died saving Sherlock.”

“Oh wow.” Katherine looked astonished, impressed. “She must have been some woman.”

Mary’s bright smile entered his vision, and he smiled himself. He missed her sometimes. “Oh, she was.”

There was a moment of comfortable silence, and then, “How long have you known Sherlock?” Katherine asked.

“Nine years.”

Katherine raised an eyebrow. “And you’re just getting together  _ now? _ ”

John laughed. “We’ve actually been together for about two years. But, it took me a long time to admit to myself, and accept, that I am bi. And that I am in love with the fool we’re looking for.”

The coffee pot gurgled, and Katherine didn’t waste any time in fixing up the three beverages.

“Well then,” she said, “let’s refuel, and get back to finding the fool you’re in love with.”

John picked up his cup. “Sounds good to me.”

When they returned to the bullpen, Lestrade was on the phone. John immediately knew by the volume and tone of the detective’s voice, he was talking to Molly.

John checked his watch. 1:55am, Toronto time; 6:55am London time. Rosie would be awake and watching her morning cartoons before Molly struggled to get her into her coat and boots.

“With any luck, tomorrow,” Lestrade said, “we’re getting close... Oh, I hope so... I miss you too.”

John quietly approached Lestrade, and tapped his shoulder. “I assume that’s Molly?”

Lestrade nodded, only half paying attention.

John could just hear Molly’s voice through the phone, but couldn’t make out what she was saying.

“Would you mind if I spoke to her?” he asked. “I’d like to say hello to Rosie.”

“Of course.” Lestrade told Molly of John’s request, and handed his cell phone over.

John took it. “Hey, Molly.”

“Lestrade told me about Sherlock,” Molly said. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m all right,” John answered. “Like Lestrade said, we’re getting close.”

“I hope you find him soon,” Molly said.

“We will; I can feel it.” John paused, and gathered himself. “Could I say hello to Rosie?”

Molly complied right away, and within moments, Rosie’s voice was in John’s ear.

“Hi, Daddy,” she said. Her voice was happy and bright. She had no idea what was going on over here, no idea how dire things were. And John was going to keep it that way.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he answered. “Are you being good for Auntie Molly?”

“Yes.”

_ Of course she’d say that _ . “Good girl.”

“When are you coming home?” Rosie asked.

John’s heart broke. It was far from the first time he’d ever heard those words; he’d heard them often when phoning home from Afghanistan. But, hearing them from his daughter…

“Hopefully, some time tomorrow,” John said.

“Okay,” Rosie answered. “I drawed you and Daddy a picture.”

Normally, this was the time John corrected her grammar, but he didn’t have the heart to tonight. “You did? We can’t wait to see it.” He knew Sherlock would be elated to come home to a new drawing to put on the fridge door, but they were running out of magnets. Maybe he’d pick up some souvenir ones before he left Toronto.

“I have to go to nursery now,” Rosie said. “I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you too, Rosie. Give Daddy a kiss?”

“Muah!”

John responded in kind, and then Molly came back on the line.

“I’ve got to get her to nursery before we’re both late,” she said.

“Of course,” John answered. “Thank you, again, for looking after her.”

“Any time, John,” Molly said. “She’s fine. You just focus on bringing Sherlock back home.”

“I will. I am.”

John handed the phone back to Lestrade, who gave Molly his own well wishes, and ended the call by telling her he loved her.

Exchanging nods of understanding, they returned to the board room, where Delacruz now sat at the table, drinking his coffee.

“I’ve had New Scotland Yard send the Phoenix police department a BOLO and warrant for Frank Kurth,” Lestrade said. “They should be getting it shortly.”

Delacruz nodded. “Thank you. And I’ve been in contact with City Centre Airport. We’ve asked the employee who witnessed the vehicle theft – a Tobin Young – to come in and answer a few questions. He’s agreed.”

“Why don’t you question him at the airport?” Katherine suggested. “John believes Sherlock is somewhere on the island. My opinion may not bear any weight here, but I’m inclined to agree.”

“Question Mr. Young at the airport,” Mycroft added. “Then we’re in the right place to begin searching for Sherlock.”

Delacruz didn’t protest. “Okay. I’ll have Grey bring him to the airport.” He downed the rest of his coffee, and then exited the room.

A disconcerting thought crossed John’s mind, and he looked at Mycroft. “Does this mean we have to deal with Simon again?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed. “Yes.”

John ran a hand over his face.  _ Lovely.  _ “Oh, lucky us.”

**Author's Note:**

> I will be posting this as it gets written and beta'd. Thank you, in advance, for your patience.
> 
> Also, archive warnings may change as this fic goes on.


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